


Party Hard

by LongLiveTheParty



Category: Andrew W.K.
Genre: Andrew W.K. - Freeform, Andrew Wilkes-Krier, Music, Party, The Power of Positive Partying, party hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LongLiveTheParty/pseuds/LongLiveTheParty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew W.K., musician, entertainer and professional partier, has to investigate the theift of the highly valuable Party Emerald. Little does he know that this is more than just a simple jewel theft. The fate of the world may be at stake!</p><p>When it's time to party, Andrew W.K. will always party hard. But can he party hard enough to save the world?</p><p> </p><p>This is a silly story about the power of positive partying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Begin the Engine

**Author's Note:**

> Andrew W.K. is a real life human being, and in no way authorized or is affiliated with any of this nonsense. This is just for fun.
> 
> This is my first attempt at a transformative work so any constructive criticism is very much appreciated. Please let me know what you think, what works and what doesn't.

Big Dave was just starting to enjoy himself when he felt the blade against his throat. He had been working security for the biggest party in town, and had finally decided to give up trying to look tough and start nodding his head to the bodacious jams he heard wafting up from the main event below. The Museum of Natural History in New York City was celebrating the acquisition of an especially rare and valuable item by hosting a hoe-down featuring all of the Museum’s most high-profile patrons, and Big Dave was supposed to be on look out on the rooftop to make sure everything went smoothly. He didn’t have time to react before the knife he felt was dragged through his flesh. He bled out gasping for air as the music below kicked into an especially killer guitar solo.

  
A similar fate befell the other rooftop guards. None of them had time to raise the alarm or call for help. No one saw the hooded figures moving in the shadows, creeping about as silently as fog. The guests below never had reason to suspect anything was amiss.

 

* * *

 

 

When the band finished playing Madame Wintergrade, the famous philanthropist who had funded the evening’s jubilation took the mic.  
“Friends, honoured guests, welcome to this most auspicious event!” She proclaimed, her voice all rich and Britishy, “for tonight, we shall unveil the rarest, most fascinating, and most mysterious item this museum has ever had the privilege of obtaining!”

The crowd was stoked. Madame Wintergrade stepped towards a large velvet veil, which was covering the prized object that the museum had gone to such lengths to procure.  
“I present to you...” she said, pausing for dramatic effect, “The Party Emerald!”

She threw aside the veil like a child pulls off the wrapper of a chocolate bar, eager to get at the goodies inside. There, sitting atop a podium and beneath an inch of bullet-proof glass, was a jewel roughly the size of a fist (depending on how big your hands are). It was immaculately cut, and sparkled with brilliance so intense that everyone looking on it put on shades even though they were indoors. A resounding ‘woah’ was heard permeating the room.

The Party Emerald seemed to glow with a light of its own, throbbing and pulsing in time to a rhythm of its own. It seemed like this because it was true. This was a very special rock.

All of a sudden, there was a crashing sound as the glass roof above shattered and six figures descended on ropes. Five of them were dressed in long brown robes, like monks of some sort, and brandishing long curved knives. The last to drop was wearing a different, fancier robe and was obviously the leader. You could tell he was the leader because all of the other guys had hoods on so you couldn’t see their faces, but this guy didn’t bother with that and proudly showed his face to all. His robe was a dark red, lined with gold (although it probably wasn’t real gold because that would be expensive). It had long hanging sleeves and pointy shoulder bits that made him totally look like a wizard.  
“If you don’t mind,” he announced loudly, in a voice even Britisher than Madame Wintergrade’s, “I’ll be taking that emerald now.”

“I most certainly do mind!” said Madame Wintergrade. She raised her hand to slap the leader of the robed bandits, but before she could make contact one of the brown-robed lackeys stabbed her in the back. One of the party guests screamed for the security.

“Hahaha!” the leader laughed evily, “We’ve already dealt with the pathetic fools you call security! There is no one left to save you!”

“There’s still me,” a voice called out. Everyone turned to the stage to see the source of the voice. The signer of the party band stepped forward, “I’ll stop you.”

He stood upright, glaring defiantly at the rogues who had interrupted an otherwise bitchin’ party. A gruesome scowl covered his face, his eyes burning for the blood of one who could commit such a heinous act. This gnarly face was framed by even gnarlier hair, black as tar and damp with sweat. He wore a plain white t-shirt and white jeans, both of which looked as though they had been worn for weeks straight. As he stared down the leader of the bad guys the leader gasped in recognition.

“Andrew W.K!”

Andrew pounced from the stage and made for the leader, but was intercepted by two of the guys in brown robes. He dodged their knives with much agility, but it was clear that they were trained killers who would not be easy to defeat. Andrew head-butted one of the in the face and it was fucking brutal, but as he did another mook came up behind him with his knife raised. Andrew barely managed to dodge in time, and as his did delivered a backwards kick which threw the hooded hooligan backwards.

While this was happening, the leader pulled a device about the size of a torch out of his robes. It was a laser specifically designed to cut through the glass protecting the Party Emerald. He got to work freeing his prize while the remaining four henchmen forced the party guests back with their knives and just by generally being menacing, which is easy to do when you have a monkish hooded robe and a big-ass knife. The crowd responded by screaming and running for the clearly labelled exits, leaving the museum mostly empty pretty quickly.

Andrew, having shaken his first two attackers, began running for the leader again. Since it was clear that the party attendants were all escaping, the remaining four goons attacked Andrew at once. One threw his knife directly and Andrew’s face, but Andrew jumped over it and did a mid-air somersault (the somersault didn’t help it just looked cool). When he landed, two more mooks pounced on Andrew, knives at the ready. Andrew did a somersault (which this time did help) and ended up behind them. He grabbed their heads, one in each hand, and banged them together hard. Even through the hoods it would have really hurt.

“Party tip: two heads aren’t always better than one!” said Andrew.

The robed rouge who had thrown his knife now approached Andrew.

“What are you going to do? You’re unarmed!” Andrew laughed. The bad guy responded by pulling a pair of nunchaku from inside his robe and twirling them around in a show-offy manner.

“Oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” Andrew responded, and then puked into his hands. Only it wasn’t vomit that came out, it was two bananas connected by a short chain. Andrew spun the bananachaku around to show he meant business.

The hooded henchman circled Andrew, and the two men never took their eyes off each other, nor did they stop twirling their nunchaku around and just looking so badass. They were locked in a battle of minds (as well as a battle of nunchaku), and the first one to break mentally would surely be the one to break physically.

Of course, there was still one more henchman who came up behind Andrew with a knife. This trick clearly didn’t work, and this guy was swiftly bananachakued in the face and again in the groin. This, however, broke Andrew’s focus and the other man attacked. Andrew was faster, and dodged the attack, but as he attempted to strike back the last henchman jumped over his head and he somersaulted, as if to say “I can do it too, it’s not even that hard”.

Andrew spun on the spot expecting to continue the fight, but instead saw the henchman and the leader running for the exit. They had already taken the Party Emerald! Andrew was about to give chase, but remembered poor sweet Madame Wintergrade bleeding on the floor. He rushed to see if he could help her.

She was unconscious, but still clinging to life. Andrew’s electrifying touch woke her, and she coughed blood all over Andrew’s shirt.

“Hang in there, Madam, I’ll get you some help. I can still save you!” Andrew said, but Madam Wintergrade would have nothing of it.

“Forget me, Andrew. You must retrieve The Party Emerald!” she said, struggling with every word.

“But, Madam, it’s just a rock. A rad rock, sure, but no material object can be as valuable as a human life.”

“You don’t understand! The Party Emerald is too powerful to fall into the wrong hands!”

“What do you mean? What’s so special about this Emerald?”

“Andrew! They’re getting away!”

And sure enough, they were. Andrew got up and ran after them. If the Party Emerald was that important to Madame Wintergrade, then he had to assume it really was something special.

As soon as he got out of the front door he saw the leader and his one remaining henchmen getting on hoverbikes which they had left out front for a speedy getaway.

“You’re too late, Mr Wilkes-Krier, it’s impossible to stop us now!” The leader called out, his voice laden with arrogance.

“Party tip: ‘impossible’ is just a challenge. Anything is possible if you believe in yourself.” Andrew relied. He ran after the two villains, and after a short distance jumped in the air. A trail of mozzarella cheese formed in mid-air beneath his feet, and he began surfing this like a stringy, melted wave in the sky. He was in hot pursuit.

The bad guys also took to the air, and tried to escape Andrew by weaving in-between the city’s many sky-scrapers and alleyways, dipping and ducking under billboards and bridges, doing their best to lose their persistent pursuer. But Andrew stayed close behind them. The hover bikes they were using were very advanced, but no vehicle known to man can out-maneuverer mozzarella.

The henchman had dropped his nunchaku and was now wielding a gun, shooting behind him at Andrew. Andrew, while still surfing a wicked wave of cheese through the air, held out his right hand to the heavens. A bolt of lightning struck his outstretched fingers, creating a blinding flash of light. There, in his hand, a guitar had instantly materialized. It was shaped like a slice of pizza, and was enchanted so that even when not plugged in all could hear the luscious licks and rocking riffs playing on it.

Andrew played some sweet party tunes, and every bullet that the baddies sent his way was evaporated by the sheer intensity of the music. In this way Andrew kept chase of the dastardly duo, sweeping through the city only a couple of meters behind. The hooded henchman grew frustrated and even threw a grenade at Andrew, but this two was rendered inert by the jams emanating from Andrew’s axe. Instead of deadly shrapnel, the grenade burst into streamers and glitter, harmlessly drifting down to the good citizens below.

“That’s the power of positive partying!” called Andrew W.K., taunting his felonious foes.

The two baddies gave each other a look, and then nodded. Then they split up. Even Andrew can’t go in two places at once, but he didn’t know which one had the Emerald. Betting that the leader wouldn’t delegate such an honour to a henchman (this Emerald had proven to be worth more than Madame Wintergrade’s life, you’ll remember), Andrew chose to follow him. The leader was unarmed, so Andrew no longer needed to keep playing to stop bullets, but he did anyway, as people in the streets below and through the windows of buildings he passed were clearly getting their party on as he passed, and even a passing party is a party worth having.

The red robed rogue was starting to falter. He couldn’t concentrate on his escape, as even he was starting to get down to Andrew’s tunes. He could feel his foot tapping of its own accord. He knew from experience that head-bopping would follow. After that, who knows. It was clear that he would have to end this, as he could no longer keep running.  
Andrew strummed an especially powerful power chord, which created a shockwave that sent the bad guy lurching forwards into a nearby abandoned warehouse. The vile villain crashed through the window, rolling off his hover bike as he did so. Andrew followed, and once he entered the warehouse he dismounted his mozzarella and left his guitar in its cheesy folds.

The bike slammed into the far wall and exploded. After that brief flash of light, all was dark. “He’ll never be able to see me in this darkness,” thought the bad guy, “whereas I have been trained for years in the shadowy arts. The darkness is my home, and I see as clearly here as in broad daylight”.  
What he didn’t realise, however, was that Andrew had some training of his own. Andrew W.K. also lived for the night, and often showered with sunglasses on, both of which had honed his eyesight to see perfectly in near-total darkness. So, when the guy in the red robe thought he was sneaking up behind a blinded victim, he was actually falling into a trap.

The bad guy, well trained in the art of unarmed assassination, reached his hands out to strangle our hero. Feigning ignorance until the last second, Andrew waited until his could feel the warmth of the fingers of his atrocious adversary before spinning around with a powerful roar and karate chop.

“Party tip: bad guys never win. Now hand over The Party Emerald.” Andrew said to his fallen foe. But where Andrew was expecting a cowering and defeated man he was met with only laughter.

“You fool! I don’t have it! I never had it! And now you’ll never stop us!”

“What? You let one of your pawns hold something that valuable?”

“You don’t get it, do you? We’re all pawns! This is way bigger than you could possibly imagine!”

“We? Who are you people? And what do you want with The Party Emerald?” Andrew demanded, shaking the man he once thought a leader. (Although to be fair, I thought he was the leader too. He fooled everyone!)

“Hahahaha! As if I would ever tell you that!”

“I have ways of making you talk.” and Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out an extra sharp corn chip, covered in even sharper cheese.

“Alright, alright! Just don’t cut me! I’m not good with blood!”

“Then talk!”

“I belong to an organisation called-“ but before the bad guy could finish his confession he was struck by a shuriken and instantly died.


	2. Never Let Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew visits the roughest, toughest bar in town in search of clues. Many chili-wings are eaten.

Andrew dropped his fallen foe and spun around, sharpened corn chip still in hand. He was just quick enough to see the hem of the robe of the fleeing felon vanish through a doorway, just slow enough to miss as he threw the chip at the villain. Andrew followed in hot pursuit, charging through the doorway after the robed assassin. The door lead outside, to a concrete yard full of shipping containers. Again, Andrew managed to just barely see the bottom of the robe as it dipped behind a shipping container.

“If these guys wore shorter skirts I'd have no hope of catching him” Andrew thought to himself.

As Andrew ran behind the shipping container, the cultist was waiting for him with a fistful of ninja death stars. Andrew twisted his body to avoid the volley of shurikens, unable to prevent one of them severing a lock of his beautiful hair. It fell gently like a cherry blossom, the strands slightly separating as they soared through the cold night air.

Andrew W.K. responded by catching one of the shurikens in his teeth and flinging it back at the cultist with a swish of his head. The robed rascal expertly dodged the attack, and then pulled a pair of sai from behind his back. He lunged at Andrew, but Andrew simply grinned his maniacal fucking grin and caught both weapons by the blades in his bare hands.

“Party Tip: Be nice or go home!” Andrew yelled in the bad guy's face before judo-flipping him over his head.

The cultist rolled as he fell, and then launched himself back upright as if preparing for another attack. Andrew put up his dukes ready for a serious scuffle, but then the shadowy scallywag simply disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“Damn it!” Andrew cursed to the air, “He got away!”

The villain had indeed escaped, and Andrew had not a single clue or lead that could direct him to the current location of the Party Emerald.

* * *

 

In a shadowy room, many miles away, a robed man emerged from a sudden explosion of smoke.

“It is done, Master. Mr Wilkes-Krier knows nothing” the cultist addressed a figure draped in darkness, seated upon a large stone throne.

“Good, my servant. And soon he shall be nothing!” the mysterious person on the throne exclaimed with sinister joy, clutching the party emerald in one hand.

* * *

 

Andrew W.K. scoured the streets of New York City, looking for a clue. He had shaken up the dirty dives frequented by delinquents and ne’er-do-wells. He had interrogated the denizens with all of his guile, all of his force, but nobody had spoken a word.

Finally he had made it to the Black Tooth Grin, the roughest toughest bar in town. It was a grizzly joint, full of menacing glares and crooked grins. All of the men had beards. All of the women also had beards. Many of the denizens were wearing sunglasses inside, and at night. The bartender was a bear that had learned how to pour beer and throw bottles in exchange for money. Nobody knew what it did with the money, but no one had ever been able to get up the guts to ask.

Our partying protagonist had put off searching for clues here. It was frequently plagued by bad vibes. But Andrew W.K. was determined to retrieve the Party Emerald. Too (two) many people had died for him to give up now.

Andrew marched up to the tallest, meanest-looking person in the bar. He was a real rough customer, more than seven feet tall, with a beard that brushed the floor. He wore an eye-patch on one eye, with a pink scar visible behind it like a river winding down his face. His arms were so muscular they looked like they had been packed with watermelons, and he never ever wore sleeves. If Andrew W.K. could get this guy to talk, everyone else in the bar would surely follow suit. But that was a pretty big “if”.

“Hey, punk! You’re getting awfully close to my personal space.” The big guy scowled and Andrew approached.

“I want to ask you a few a questions.” Andrew said, firmly, head turned upwards to look the behemoth before in him the eye.

“Hahaha! This guy wants to ask a few questions!” The bar erupted into laughter, which was cut off abruptly when the large dude bent down to get his face closer to Andrew’s face.

“Maybe I don’t feel like answering.”

“Maybe you don’t. Maybe I have ways to make you feel like answering.” Andrew did not flinch, did not blink, but stared the big fella right in his one menacing eye.

“Well, then, let’s make a deal. A challenge, in fact. If you can best me in a game of strength, then I will spill my guts for you, tell you everything you want to know. But, if I win, then…” the big guy thought for a moment, “I get your hair. All of it. You have to cut it off, and I’ll add it to my beard. And then you can never set foot in here again!”

Everyone in the bar cheered at the challenge, and then went silent awaiting Andrew’s response.

“Fine then. I accept. Name the game, buddy.” Andrew said.

“The name’s not ‘buddy’. It’s Sweaty Pete. And the game will the truest test of strength there is. The noblest, most ancient of games. A chilli wing eating completion.”

There was a thunderous applause all around the bar. Whooping and hollering and various cowboy noises abounded. Even the bar seemed to be clapping as he roared excitedly. Sweaty Pete pulled himself upright, hands on his hips, confident. When he looked down at the challenger, he saw a big, manic grin stretch across Andrew’s face.

“Then let the games begin!” Andrew exclaimed.

* * *

 

Andrew W.K. was lead down a flight of rickety old stairs, to the secret area in the basement of the Black Tooth Grin. It had been a speakeasy in the prohibition days, and after that it housed an underground bareknuckle boxing circuit. More recently, it had been converted into a high-stakes chilli eating completion arena. There were stands full of rowdy, cheering fans, some of them waving cardboard signs, others frantically clutching the money they had bet on the game. The stands faced a square ring in the middle of the room. It had ropes around it like a wrestling ring, but in the centre there were two chairs positioned at opposite sides of a table. On the table where two large plates, piled high with the spiciest chili wings on earth: the Certifiably Insane Wings, a specialty dish of the Black Tooth Grin.

As soon as Andrew entered the area he was greeted with a strong smell of chilli, not wafting so much as pounding through the room. He recognised the subtle aromas of the various chilies used in this unique dish. The sweet pungency of the Mexican Tarantula chilli; the sticky, lava-like sting of the Thermonuclear Pain Pepper; and the infamous slow-burning sadism of the Grand Infinite Naga of Bangladesh. All combined upon the wings of a deliciously barbequed chicken.

Sweaty Pete climbed up onto the ring and grabbed a microphone in his gargantuan hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, listen up!” Pete bellowed, “Tonight, we have a new challenger!”

People in the stands cheered and waved signs and stuff.

“This guy, this so-called ‘Andrew W.K.’ thinks he can eat chilli wings with the big boys! Well, you listen to me, Andy, and you listen good! Tonight, in this here ring, at this here table, I am going to whoop your ass! You hear me? I am going to whoop. Your. Ass!”

Sweaty Pete dropped the microphone, and walked proudly to the table in the middle of the ring. Not one to be outdone, Andrew W.K. stepped into the ring and picked the microphone back up. His face was still contorted in a crazed grin and he pulled the microphone up to his face. The crowd went silent, all eyes on Andrew, waiting to see what we would say.

Andrew W.K. let out a loud belch, then dropped the mic and strode over to the table, taking a seat opposite Sweaty Pete. The ref then took up the microphone.

“Alright, boys, we want a good clean match. No skinning, no de-boning, no liquids until the match is over. The person who can eat the most wings in 30 minutes, or before they tap out, is the winner. You must finish eating one wing completely before moving on to the next, only wings with nothing left but the bone will count.” The ref said.

“You’re going down, little man!” Sweaty Pete threatened.

“Something you should know about me Pete,” Andrew said, “when it’s time to party, I always party hard!”

The bell sounded, and the match began. Andrew and Pete both grabbed wings and tore into them with inhuman ferocity. Each had devoured three wings within the first minute. As they both reached for a fourth in unison, the spice hit them, almost simultaneously.

Tears began to appear in Andrew’s eyes. His whole face went red. He began to shake slightly. Meanwhile, Sweaty Pete was showing how he got his name. He, too, was read in the face, with his entire body covered in a thin layer of moisture. His breathing had become much heavier, as thunderous gusts blew in and out of his large nostrils.

After Andrew finished his fifth wing, the shaking became noticeable to the audience. He had begun to pant in between mouthfuls. A single tear ran down his cheek. Still he powered on through. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be called partying hard, Andrew thought to himself as he brought another wing to his mouth.

After some time our partying protagonist had lost count of how many wings he had eaten, and had completely lost track of the time. Had it been three minutes? Half an hour? A day? Who could say? He stole a glance at Sweaty Pete, who was now luminescing bright orange, with a slight wisp of smoke trailing out of his nose. The sweat has gotten much thicker, and was now slicking Pete’s mighty beard like oil.

Andrew himself was now shaking violently. His eyes were completely red: not the pale red of the insomniac, but the full, bright red of a firetruck. He, too, was becoming wet with sweat. But still he kept going.

Party hard, he repeated his mantra internally between bites. Party hard. Party hard. When it’s time to party you must always party hard.

Sweaty Pete was beginning to slow down. He was staring intensely at each wing 0before picking it up, whereas in the beginning there had been no time in between seeing a wing and shovelling it into his gaping maw. He was glowing so bright that the ref had to put on sunglasses, and the chair he was sitting on had caught fire. Andrew’s chair, on the other hand, had been busted to splinters by Andrew’s vicious vibrations. At this point Andrew was weeping openly, tears of salty beer.

Party hard, Andrew kept saying to himself. Party hard. Every time he felt himself starting to lose grip, he repeated that phrase to himself. Despite the tears, despite the pain. Party hard. Party hard.

On the other side of the table, Sweaty Pete was just as determined to win. He had his pride at stake, his reputation. He was the roughest, toughest dude in the roughest, toughest bar in New York City. But what good was that if he couldn’t win a simple chilli wing eating completion? He twisted his face into a look of stubborn fury, grabbed the next wing in two hands and brought it up to his face. Don’t think about the pain, he instructed himself internally. Don’t think about the heat. Don’t even think about eating the chicken. It’s not chicken, it’s water. It’s beer. It’s milk. You can do this, Pete.

Andrew’s shaking had gotten out of control. He was a blur. A bright red, sweaty, teary blur into which wings occasionally disappeared. The pain was becoming unbearable. He needed a drink. His body was crying out in pain for a glass of cold milk. His lips were on fire, his sweat was sizzling and evaporating off of his body. He needed a drink. No, Andrew! he thought to himself, you have to do this. Party hard. Party hard!

Andrew W.K. gripped the table with both hands, steadying his shakes. His head bent forward, he stared down the pile of chilli wings with a look of unbridled hatred. “Party hard,” he began muttering, out loud, but still quietly.

“Party hard. Party hard. Party hard.” He got louder and louder, until Sweaty Pete could just hear him over the sound of burning wood and chickens getting munched.  
Sweaty Pete must have sensed what was coming, because he started to speed up again. He grabbed a wing in each hand, sticking them in his mouth one-at-a-time and pulling out nothing but bones.

“Party hard. Party hard. Party hard.” Andrew had started to rock back and forth. His knuckles were completely white, but the rest of his body was still a firey red.  
Sweaty Pete was absolutely soggy, but he had to keep up the pace. He grabbed one more wing and brought it up to his lips. But then something deep inside him stopped. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t force one more wing inside his body. He couldn’t manage.

He clenched his hand into a fist, crushing the wing within it, and screamed out in anguish with his face pointed accusingly towards the heavens. Sweaty Pete’s cry could be heard throughout the city that night. Not a soul in New York City would ever forget that sound.

He stood up, and ran for the ringside. There, waiting for him, was a large bucket of milk, into which he plunged his head. He did not emerge for five minutes.

“Well, it looks like Sweaty Pete is out of the match.” The referee announced, as Andrew still sat rocking back and forth and talking to himself. “Sweaty Pete managed to eat 314 wings before he left. If the challenger can beat that number, then he will be victorious. However, the challenger has currently only eaten 251 wings. If he can’t match Sweaty Pete’s number, then Sweaty Pete will be the winner!”

It was a really tense and exciting moment!

Andrew W.K. was accelerating in his rocking, and at the same time his chanting was getting louder. He stood up abruptly, still gripping the table in his hands. The splintered chair he had been sitting on crumbled to sawdust.

“Party hard! Party hard! Party hard!” Andrew was shouting now.

“There’s only two minutes left on the clock” the ref reminded everyone.

“Party hard! Party hard! Party haaaaaard!” Andrew yelled at the top of his lungs, and then rocked forwards so hard that he smashed his face on the front of the table. As blood began to trickle down his face, Andrew dove for the wing plate, face first. He was still clutching the table in his hands, eating wings with only the use of his face. He was rocking back and forth rapidly, grabbing a wing in his mouth on the forward rock and spitting out the bones on the backward rock. If one listened carefully, one could hear the muffled mantra of “party hard” was still being frantically repeated with a mouthful of chicken.

Finally Andrew W.K. let go of the table and jumped on top of it, kneeling in a pile of wings. He ripped through them like some manic animal, and the ringside cooks were struggling to keep adding wings to the pile fast enough. By the time the bell went signalling the end of the match, Andrew W.K. was soaked head to toe in sticky, spicy chilli sauce. He was writhing on his back, sweating fire, crying tears of chilli sauce and barking the words “party hard” like a man possessed.

Two medics rushed over with a bucket of cold water, which they dumped over him. A third medic ran over with a carton of chocolate milk, which Andrew W.K. ate without opening.

“Ok, that’s the end of the match! Sweaty Pete was able to eat 314 wings before he retired. Due to his, uh, unorthodox methods, it will take us a moment to determine the challenger’s number. Hang on, folks, here it is…”

The ref held a piece of paper in his hand, delivered to him by the team of official bone counters.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the challenger, Andrew W.K., has eaten…”

The whole room was silent, save the ragged panting of Andrew and Sweaty Pete.

“… 612 wings! That’s a new Black Tooth Grin record! Andrew W.K. is the winner!”


	3. Not Going To Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew W.K. chases down a lead to try to find the Party Emerald. Of course, things don't exactly go smoothly, and some rough-housing is involved.

After the match, Andrew W.K. and Sweaty Pete both went back to the bar of the Black Tooth Grin and each ordered themselves a pint, one in celebration and one in consolation.

“So, Pete, do you remember our little arrangement?” Andrew asked.

“Yeah, I do.” Pete replied, reluctantly.

“Party tip:” Andrew said, “always keep your promises. It’s really important.”

“You’re right. I may look mean, but I ain’t no scoundrel. I’ll keep my word. Anything you want to know, ask it, and I’ll tell.” Said Pete, as the two men took a seat at the corner of the bar.

“Tonight the Party Emerald was stolen by a bunch of weird dudes in dark red robes. I want to know where it is, who took it, and why.”

At that moment there was a loud sound of vinyl being scratched, followed by dead silence. A few of the more nervous denizens scattered, but all others simply froze. Every eye was on our hedonic hero and his perspiring pal.

“Weird dudes in dark red robes?” Sweaty Pete took a long, slow drink from his beverage, draining the whole thing, before answering cautiously, “Why on Earth would a fella be interested in a bunch of weird dudes in dark red robes?”

“You said you’d tell me what I wanted to know, so tell.” Andrew remained firm.

“What have you heard so far?”

“So far I haven’t heard a thing. As soon as I’ve mentioned these guys everyone has been really tight-lipped. That’s why I got you to promise before I asked. Now tell me everything you know.”

“I can honestly say I don’t know much about these red robed guys. So far as I can tell, they’re in some sort of cult. No one knows what they want or where they come from, but they’ve been seen around lately, causing trouble. And everywhere they’ve gone, they’ve been sure to threaten the daylights out of anyone who saw them. No one wants to talk, because they’ve got everyone running scared.

“The Party Emerald isn’t the first thing they’ve taken, but I reckon it’d be the most valuable. Last week they knocked over a biker bar that was a known place of congregation for some local Satanists. They shook the place up pretty bad, made everyone shit themselves. Then a couple of nights later they stole a linear accelerator from the physics department of MIT.”

“So you know about the Party Emerald?” Andrew asked, eagerly.

“Not a great deal, but I heard about it. There was a documentary about it on TV just last night, and an interview with the dame who found it.” Sweaty Pete stopped to think for a bit, “an archaeologist by the name of Joanne Scott. If I remember right, she lives somewhere in town.”

“Maybe she can tell me more about the Party Emerald. If I can find out what’s so special about it, and what this cult wants with it, then maybe I can figure out where they are and what they are planning.”

“That would be your best bet. This crazy cult seems to have left no other clue.” Pete agreed, “But Andy, be careful.”

“Party tip: Never be careful when you could be party.” Andrew W.K. stood up and put a hand on Sweaty Pete’s should, “and Pete, don’t call me ‘Andy’”.

* * *

 

When Andrew W.K. got to Joanne Scott’s apartment he found a note stuck to the door with a large knife. It read: meet me on the roof. Bring the amulet. There seemed to be blood on the knife.

Andrew bolted up the stairs until he kicked down the door and exploded on the roof of the apartment building. There, on the flat concrete rooftop, he saw a woman being approached menacingly by three goons.

The woman, who it turned out was the daring archaeologist Joanne Scott, was wearing a tan collared shirt, short khaki shorts and big serious brown boots. Her brown hair was tied  
back and she looked ready for action. The men surrounding her looked like trouble.

“Give us the amulet and you get to walk out of here. Keep it and you get to be the richest corpse in the city.” One of the thugs said as he brandished a revolver and wore a fedora like some 1930’s gangster. One of the other blokes held a shotgun and wore a flat cap, while the third had a crowbar and a heavy trenchcoat.

“I’ll never give you the amulet!” She said clutching something small and shiny in her hand, “if you want it so bad, come and get it!” and with that she threw the object into her mouth and swallowed.

All at once the goons advanced. The revolver went off, but Joanne ducked bellow the bullet. As one mook swung with his crowbar, Joanne grabbed the crowbar and flipped him, putting him in exactly the right place to be used as a human shield when the shotgun fired. She dropped the dead weight and flipped into the air, landing behind the man with the shotgun. From behind she grabbed the gun brought it up to the dude’s neck, snapping his throat with his own gun. Then she pumped the shotgun and pointed it at the guy with the revolver, who by this time was aiming directly at her.

“Don’t even think about it, broad!! I won’t miss twice!” the gunman sneered.

“I’m not aiming for you” Joanne said, with a scared look on her face. The ruse worked, and the mook turned around to look behind him. As he did so, Joanne shot him directly in the head, ripping it to gooey pieces. “Well, that takes care of that.” She said to herself.

“Not quite!” She heard a sinister, inhuman voice say. It was the thug who had the crow bar, who was now standing despite bleeding from his bullet wounds.

Without hesitating, Joanne fired at him, hitting him square in the chest. But the ghastly goon just laughed, and started stalking towards her dramatically with his crowbar in hand.

“Now d’ya understand why we want that amulet, Scott?” The man in the flat cap said as he too began to rise, despite the broken neck.

“Mmgglrgh glarrb blrrmngh gllarrgh!” The third thug gargled, struggling to speak with most of his head missing.

“What he’s trying to say,” the man with the crowbar said, “is that we ain’t just ordinary gangsters! We’re vampire gangsters!”

“Well fuck!” said Joanne.

Joanne was right. Vampires are not easy to kill. Sunlight usually works, but it was the middle of the night! Decapitating them will also kill them, but as we have seen already you need to take the entire head for it to work. Wooden stakes, fire and holy water are also useful, but where was our plucky adventuress supposed to find such things?

The vampire gangsters advanced menacingly. Joanne braced herself for what may be her final fight.

“Hey!” Andrew called to her from the doorway, “need a hand?”

“No offence, buddy, but unless you’ve got a wooden stake hidden away somewhere in those dirty jeans I don’t think you’ll be much help. Just save yourself and get out of here.” Joanne responded firmly, with not a trace of fear in her voice.

“Well, I don’t have a steak, but I may have something better.” Andrew said, but before he could step in to help all three vampires pounced on their prey. Joanne ducked and rolled, dodging under one of the vampires and causing them to collide. They were stunned, but only briefly. Joanne fired at the vampires a couple more times, hoping to slow them down. It didn’t, and now she was out of ammo!

One vampire lunged at her with a crowbar. She dodged by jumping backwards, but now found herself being backed against the edge of the rooftop, with nothing but a fifteen-storey drop behind her.

“You’re at the end of your rope, dame! You should’a just handed over the amulet when you had the chance!” The vampires taunted her. She dropped her shotgun and put up her dukes, ready to go down swinging.

“PARTY TIP, you vampire shitheads!” came a voice from behind them, “don’t let yourselves get surrounded in a fight!”

The vampire with half his face missing turned around, only to receive a roundhouse kick to what was left of his jaw. He tumbled over his two companions, and with some quick manoeuvring Joanna flipped him over her shoulders and off the roof.

“Mmrrrughlrgg!” He yelled as he fell, before splattering onto the pavement below.

The remaining two vampires lost no time in engaging the new assailant. The crowbar-equipped rouge swung at Andrew, who expertly blocked the attack. The one with the gun took aim at Joanne, but she kicked it out of his hand before he could fire.

It was looking like it might finally be a fair fight: two on two. But then the vampire facing the awesome archaeologist reached into his hideous pocket and pulled out a fistful of glitter. He threw it into Joanne’s eyes, momentarily incapacitating her. This allowed him to turn his attention to Andrew, who was already tangoing with a partner of his own. Now it was two against one.

Pretty soon Andrew was beginning to fall back as he struggled to fend off crowbars and fangs which came at him vampiric speed. He had hardly a moment to catch his breath at the two goons lunged and slashed and pummelled at him. It was the same strategy they had used against Joanne, but now they applied it with a refreshed and determined ferocity. It was not long before Andrew found himself teetering on the edge of the rooftop himself.

“You should have kept your snoz out this, punk!” One of the vampires scowled at him.

Then the vampire with the crowbar swung. Andrew blocked, but the force knocked him backwards and off the rooftop.

“Party haaaaaaard!” Andrew called as he plummeted towards the footpath below.


	4. The Background

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk of the Party Emerald's origins leads to reminiscence of Andrew W.K.'s own origins.

“Damn it!” Joanne shouted as she watched the stranger fall.  
“Now it’s just you, doll face! Now no one will be able to save you now!” The vampires rushed at her. She got into an awesome kung fu fighting stance, but she knew she couldn’t beat them both. Then, just as the vampires were about to pounce, a huge stream of mozzarella cheese blasted them from the side. They hit the dirt, and looked up to see Andrew W.K. surfing through the air above them on a wave of cheese.  
“PARTY TIP: Light something on fire!” Andrew said, as he burped up the most stanky chilli-breath burp that ther has ever been. He still had a fire burning within him from the chilli wing eating completion, and this fire erupted out of him as a blinding explosion of heat. The vampires, unable to escape as they were covered in cheese, merely screamed an unearthly scream as they were incinerated by the blast. Nothing but dust and toasted cheese remained, and the cheese would take forever to scrape off.  
Andrew W.K. jumped off the wave of cheese and did an awesome three-point landing, and then stood up to address Joanne.  
“Are you Joanne Scott, the archaeologist?” Andrew W.K. asked.  
“Yes.” Joanne answered.  
“Right on.” Andrew said, as a smell of burnt mozzarella began to fill the air.  
“Do I know you?” Joanne asked, still pretty confused about what just happened.  
“Not yet, but you will. My name is Andrew W.K. I’ve got a few questions for you.”  
“Well, after you killed those vampire gangsters for me, I guess the least I can do is hear you out. What do you want to know?”  
“Well, firstly, did you really swallow that amulet?”  
“Haha! No, swallowing metal is really bad for you, especially cursed metal which grants immortality to vampires. That was just a chocolate coin.” They both laughed at Joanne’s clever ruse. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask?”  
“Yeah. Have you got any more of those chocolate coins?”

 

* * *

 

 

Later on, in Joanne’s apartment, our two vampire-slaying heroes were eating chocolate coins and laughing about how they beat the shit out of those vampire gangsters. Then Andrew decided it was time to get serious, so he explained his real reason for visiting. He told Joanne how the party emerald was stolen, and Madame Wintergrade was killed, and how that cultist was killed when he was about to give Andrew information. Andrew also explained the chilli wing eating contest after Joanne asked how he could burp fire. Finally, Andrew W.K. got to the actual fucking point.  
“… so that’s how I found out that you are the archaeologist who found the Party Emerald. I was wondering if you could tell me where it came from.”  
“Well, I don’t know how much I can tell,” Joanne said as she put her feet up on the coffee table, “I don’t know where the Emerald came from originally. It’s clearly been cut – there’s no way that it could grow like that naturally – but I have no idea where or by who. Everything about that emerald is shrouded in mystery. All I can tell you is where I found it.”  
“Well, that’ll have to do. Where?” Andrew W.K. asked.  
“I was in the Gobi desert, practically the middle of nowhere. The only sign of civilization for miles around was some weird monastery”  
Andrew froze. His eyes glazed over.  
“The Gobi desert…” he said, as if to himself, and his mind drifted to the past.

* * *

 

 

**1998**  
“Come on, Andrew, lighten up!” encouraged Andrew W.K.’s manager, “So what if people didn’t like the cassette in Europe? I’m sure that as soon as we land in Beijing the Chinese audience will be throwing themselves at your feet! You just need to find the right audience, Andrew, and then it will be nothing but champagne and parties for the rest of your career! Room to Breathe will be the hit of the century!”  
“Hmmf!” Andrew huffed, unimpressed by his manager’s enthusiasm, “there are more important things in life than parties, you know. And besides, people just don’t seem to care about this album. I told you, cassette’s don’t really sell anymore. Rock and roll is dead. Maybe I should go into banking.” Andrew scowled in the seat of his international flight from Moscow to Beijing, taking the aisle seat while his manager sat by the window beside him.  
“Don’t be disheartened, dear boy! Look, so your first release hasn’t gotten the best reception. So what? You can’t lose hope! Maybe your next one will be a huge hit. Or the one after that! So chin up, Andrew. A few bad reviews aren’t the end on the world.”  
“It’s the end of the world!” The pilot ran out of the cockpit screaming. Suddenly the aeroplane was struck by a bout of turbulence so rough and rowdy that many passengers were thrown out of their seats. It was only after the initial jolt that the seatbelt light came on.  
The whole plane was shaking. Andrew gripped his seat as tight as he could. His face contorted in a strange grimace of fear as his skin was peeled back by the turbulence just like a roller coaster. His hair was dancing to the music of impending doom. He turned to face his manager, who was basically freaking the fuck out.  
“Oh my god, oh my god, we’re all going to die!” the manager proclaimed as he felt the plane go into a nosedive. The overhead luggage compartments erupted, and baggage began to fly through the air towards the tail of the plane as the aeroplane accelerated towards the earth. A stray and particularly solid suitcase struck Andrew in the head, and that is the last thing he could remember of that plane.

* * *

 

 

Andrew W.K. woke up with a splitting headache and a mouth full of sand. For a second he thought it was just another Sunday morning. Then he tried to sit up, and though he immediately felt dizzy he was upright for long enough to see nothing but desert stretching out as far as the horizon in all directions. He hit the ground again, rolled over and tried to cough up as much sand as possible.  
He felt something sticky on his forehand, so he raised a hand to it to wipe it off. As he pulled his fingers back down into his eyesight he immediately recoiled in horror. Blood! Gross!  
Andrew lay moaning for some time. It may have been minutes, it may have been hours. He couldn’t tell. All he could tell was that the sun was still high in the sky, blazing down on top of him. Piece by piece, he was beginning to recall the plane flight. The plane shaking, the pilot running, the suitcase striking him, and then… nothing. Nothing until he woke up in the middle of a desert, with no sign of the plane or of civilization anywhere around him.  
When he had gathered his strength, he pulled himself to his feet and began walking. He knew he had to find water. Other than that, Andrew didn’t know the first thing about survival. He had been a city boy, through and through. A couple of camping trips in his youth were the closest he had come to the wilderness, and none of them had been to a desert in Asia.  
He chose a direction and kept walking, figuring he had to reach something sooner or later. There were precious few landmarks to guide him. He saw no looming mountain range, and very little in the way of plant-life. He wished that he had paid more attention to the nature documentaries and survival shows he could half-recall watching long ago. He thought he vaguely recalled that you could get water from a cactus, but he saw none around. Could he get water from any of these plants? Or were they poisonous? Best to just keep walking.  
The day was harsh, but the night was worse. By sundown nothing about Andrew’s situation had changed. He still had no food, no water, and no clue about where he was going. The only difference was that the scorching heat had been replaced by unbearable cold. He had planned to rest at night, to gather his strength to continue his search the next day, but he quickly found that he had to keep moving just to keep from freezing. He struggled on, guided by the light of the three-quarter moon above. He kept walking, at first singing to himself to keep spirits up, but later in silence to conserve his energy.  
Eventually, he fell to his knees in exhaustion. The sun had not shown itself at all, the sky was still dark but for the moon and stars, and yet Andrew felt unable to go on. The cold immediately begun to creep upon him, but he couldn’t keep moving. Instead he curled into a ball in the sand and huddled there, shivering.  
“I’m going to die out here.” Andrew said to himself. He believed it, too.  
He thought about the other people on the plane. He thought about his manager, and all of the other passengers. Had they made it out ok? Where was the rest of the plane? How was it that he was so far from the plane? How could it be that he was so alone?  
Finally, Andrew closed his eyes. So this is how it ends, he thought. No great applause, no fame and fortune. The world hadn’t heard his music, and most of them would never care he was gone. Cold and alone, Andrew W.K. gave up. He drifted into sleep, letting the desert take him.

* * *

 

 

For the second time in a row, Andrew W.K. woke up with a mouth full of sand and a splitting headache. Only this time, instead of the hard desert earth beneath him, he felt a bed of cloth and straw. As he pulled himself upright, feeling weak and sore all over, he saw that he was indoors, in a room of stone walls and floor.  
“Ah, you’re awake!” said a man sitting on the floor next to Andrew’s bed, passing him a dish filled with cold water, “drink this, and then your training can begin.”


	5. One Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1998, Andrew awakens to find himself in a strange monastery. His training begins.

“Hey, Andrew, are you ok there?” Joanne asked, waving her hand in front of Andrew W.K.’s face.

“Woah, sorry, I spaced out for a moment there.” Andrew said as he snapped back to reality.

“Yeah, no kidding, you were completely gone for, like, two minutes. What were you thinking about?”

“I was… I was just remembering something. Sorry. What were you saying about the Party Emerald?”

“I was saying I found it in the Gobi desert-” Joanne began.

“The Gobi desert…”

“Stop that!”

“Ooops.”

“I found it in the Gobi desert, about a mile away from some monastery and nearly a hundred miles away from anything else. It was in a cave, which looked like it had been used as some sort of shrine or something. The Emerald clearly had some sort of religious significance to the people who once lived in that desert. However, all attempts at dating the shrine so far have placed it far earlier than any known civilization in that region. As you probably understand, this makes it a huge discovery for me.” Joanne was brimming with enthusiasm as she described her findings. It was clearly something she was very proud of.

“Tell me more about this monastery.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell. They wouldn’t let me inside. Elitist jerks. Said it was only for ‘those who have been chosen’ or some bullshit. The outside was shabby as hell, though. Clearly dating back at least to early imperial China, maybe further. Would be real nice for some sort of expert like yours truly to get inside and have a look…”

“And you say the Emerald was in a cave nearby?”

“Well, not exactly nearby, but closer to the monastery than to any other notable landmark. It was actually pretty hard to find…”

“Tell me,” Andrew leaned forward eagerly, desperately, “was there an inscription in the shrine? On the wall just behind the Emerald?”

“Yeah, there was. Huge ancient Chinese characters forged in gold and embedded into the wall behind the Emerald. How did you know that?”

“Never mind that now, could you translate the inscription?”

“Me, personally? No. But I took it to a guy who could, and he said-“

Andrew W.K. stood up and cut her off.

“- ‘when it’s time to party we will always party hard’.” Andrew said, almost as he was chanting.

“How could you possibly know that? Did Steve tell you that? _Steve!_  I should have never trusted that no good translator!”

“No, Steve didn’t tell me anything. Joanne, I know what the Party Emerald is now. And I think I know how to find it.”

 

* * *

**1998**

Andrew W.K. wearily pulled himself upright on his rough straw bed, trying to take in the world around him. There was a man in front of him in plain white robes with a shaved head and a thin beard, offering him a bowl of water.

“Party tip:” said the stranger before him, “drink something right now.”

“Where am I?” Andrew asked, taking the bowl from the stranger’s hand, “and why do you drink from bowls?”

“You are in The Monastary. Sorry, our founder was not very good with names. And we drink from bowls because sometimes it can be fun. Now drink up; it will help with the headache.”

Andrew stared at the small wooden bowl in his hands, and then drained it of all liquids in one long slow gulp.

“I guess you were thirsty. I’ll have Sister Rae bring us a refill.” The robed stranger had a kind smile on his face, and seemed to say everything as if it was at least partly a joke. He was sitting cross—legged on the hard stone floor, but showed no signs of discomfort. His beard and moustache, though thin, were quite long, hanging well off his face.

“Who are you?” Andrew said, his head still spinning.

“My name is Brother Lao. I’m one of the monks here at the monastery. I will be your teacher.” The man gave a full, toothy grin. He seemed to be constantly on the verge of breaking into a fit of giggles.

“Teacher? No. No more school. I’m a grown up now. Learned my ABC’s and my times tables too. I don’t need a teacher…” Every word was an effort, although Andrew was starting to feel slightly better since he had some water.

A young woman entered the room, carrying a large clay jug full of water. Like Brother Lao, she too had a shaved head and was wearing simple white robes. She walked over to Andrew’s bed and filled up his bowl from her jug. Andrew immediately began sipping from it again.

“Ah, thank you, Sister Rae.” Brother Lao said, and she bowed and left the room. Brother Lao then turned to Andrew and said “yes, I am to be your teacher. But this is certainly no schoolyard. Here we teach you only really important things.”

“Like what?” asked Andrew.

“Why, the most important thing of all! How to party!”

Andrew broke out laughing. Or, at least, he tried to, but his throat was still dry and his lungs were still weary, so it came out as more of a disturbed cough.

“Partying isn’t important! It’s just partying! And besides, you can’t teach someone how to party. It’s just something you do.”

“No, dear Andrew, partying isn’t something you do. It’s something you are. Now, once you finish that drink, get out of bed. We have much work to do.”

 

* * *

 

Brother Lao gave Andrew some white robes to wear, and then lead him out of the room and down a long stone corridor. They passed several open doorways, through which Andrew could see monks engaging in various activities, many of which seemed strange to him. There was a room full of monks standing in a circle cheering while one monk in the middle did push-ups. In another room all of the monks were running around in a big circle while doing jazz hands. One room had only two people in it, each sitting on a rug on the floor and staring at each other intensely and unblinkingly while small kittens climbed all over them. When Andrew asked Brother Lao about this, he simple said “They are training. You will understand soon enough.”

Finally they came to a large staircase at the end of the corridor, leading down. Brother Lao descended, and Andrew followed. From the lack of natural light, Andrew guessed they must be going underground. Brother Lao lit no torch nor did he use any other form of illumination; it was as if he was perfectly accustomed to the dark.

At the bottom of the staircase was another corridor, this one far darker than the previous one, and far larger. There were no doors to rooms full of monks in this hallway, only statues and vases and shit along the walls. Andrew could barely make out the figures as he passed. The light must have been really playing tricks on his eyes; for a moment he thought he saw Iggy Pop among the statues.

Finally, they reached huge stone double doors, each stretching up to about six meters tall. There were no handles, only an inscription on the floor in front of them. Large Chinese letters carved into the stone, slightly worn with age. Brother Lao stood before the inscription and spoke something in Chinese at the doors. With a low and loud rumbling, they began slowly began to open.

As the stone doors peeled back, the room behind them was revealed. This room was brightly lit, spilling light into the dark hallway as the doors opened. It was full of balloons and disco balls, glitter and streamers, confetti and beer. There were some tables, chairs and stools, many of them overturned. There was some broken glass on the floor, and a small fire had started in one corner. The room looked like a riot had broken out at a children’s birthday party, if that party had been held inside an underground palace.

In the centre of the room was a raised circular dais, with two bean bags on it. Andrew followed Brother Lao through the room, in awe of everything around him. He could feel himself starting to change already, just by being in the room. It was making him feel… party. Could party be used as an adjective like that, Andrew wondered.

“Please, Andrew, take a seat.” Brother Lao said, indicating one of the bean bags on the dais. Brother Lao himself sat on the other one.

“This place is incredible!” Andrew exclaimed, still scanning the room trying to absorb all of the wonders around him. There was a huge ball pit in one corner of the room, with bacon stuck to the wall next to it. Looking up, Andrew saw several wooden tables and chairs nailed to the ceiling. He couldn’t believe any of the things he was seeing.

“Yes it is. I have many fond memories in this room.” Brother Lao said, the smile on his face broadening, “This is where your training starts.”

Brother Lao clapped his hands twice. Suddenly, a hole in the ceiling opened up and a torrent of chocolate milk shot onto where Andrew was sitting. He instantly tried to stand up in shock and horror, but the jet of liquid was too powerful and kept pushing him down. He struggled against it and tried to shield his eyes, but was ultimately powerless to do anything until the downpour stopped.

“Pfft!” Andrew yelled, spitting out chocolate milk as he finally shot to his feet, “What are you trying to do to me? I’m covered in milk!”

“ _Chocolate_ milk.” Brother Lao corrected him.

“Are you insane? I’m drenched! Aw, man, this is going to start to smell!”

“No no no, Andrew!” Brother Lao said, exasperated by still smiling, “You just got covered in chocolate milk and all you can do is complain? You were just out in the desert for more than a day, dying of thirst! What would you have done then if I drenched you in chocolate milk?”

“I would… I would probably have liked than. I mean, I would have _preferred_ if you just gave me a bottle of water or something.”

“But where would be the fun in that? This is actually quite disappointing. The elders saw much promise in you, but you have shown me nothing but ingratitude at this first stage of training.” Brother Lao was still smiling, but sounded sincere when he said he was disappointed.

“How is this training? What sort of training is this? I’m just a musician, man! I’m not a monk, and I don’t want to be a monk! And I _certainly_ don’t want to be covered in chocolate milk!”

“Well, this is a shame. I guess I’ll have to skip ahead to the second stage of your training.”

Andrew opened his mouth to explain to Brother Lao that he didn’t _want_ training, but before he could get the words out Lao clapped three times, and a stream of strawberry milk fell from above and knocked Andrew back down into his bean bag. Andrew writhed and struggled under the barrage, putting up his hands to protect his face.

“Ah, young Andrew,” Lao said, “you still have so much to learn.”


	6. Fun Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andew W.K.'s investigation must be put on hold for a little while: Andrew has a gig to play!

Andrew W.K. felt like he was starting to piece together the mystery of the Party Emerald. For the first time since Madame Wintergrade was murdered, he felt like he was on the right track.

The next day he began trying to track down his first suspect. He set up a wall in his apartment like detectives do in movies, with lots of newspaper clippings and pins and string and stuff. He included a few comics and a Sudoku from the newspaper as well, just to fill up some space and lighten the task up a bit.

After what Joanne had told him the night before, Andrew had concluded that the Party Emerald came from the monastery that had taken care of Andrew when he was lost in the desert, the place where his journey truly began. But it had been years since Andrew had seen that place. Due to the monastery’s policy of isolation, Andrew hadn’t even heard from his old beloved mentor, Brother Lao, since he left. This made it difficult for him to gather leads.

But the fact that the monastery enforced this policy of isolation so strictly made it even clearer in Andrew’s mind that the person behind the theft of the Party Emerald had to be someone from the monastery. Who else would know of the Emerald’s power? Even Andrew had only heard fable and rumour about the stone.

“Andrew, you have been working on that for hours now.” said Amuro, Andrew’s pet cat, as he rubbed up against Andrew’s leg.

“I know, Amuro, but I need to get to the bottom of this. If I’m right about this case, a lot of lives could depend on me finding the Party Emerald, and soon!” Andrew said, not taking his eyes away from his cool detective board.

“Party tip: you can’t save the world in a bad mood. Take a break, lose your mind, party hard, and the answers will come to you.”

“You’re right, Amuro. How did you get to be so wise?” Andrew finally pulled his gaze from his world and bent down to scratch Amuro behind the ears.

“I was taught by one of the best, Andrew” Amuro purred, “now, what do you want to do to clear you mind?”

Andrew’s eyes lit up, and his face began to stretch into his usual manic grin.

“Party tip:” Andrew said, “Lots and lots and lots of candy.”

 

* * *

Several hours and many kilograms of candy later, Andrew had work to do. Not just investigating the case of the Party Emerald; Andrew also had to work for a living like everyone else. He was playing a show that night, so his detectiving would have to wait.

It was one of Andrew W.K.’s solo performances. Just one man, one keyboard and a whole lot of party. Despite everything that had happened over the last couple of days, Andrew stayed focused for the entire performance. Music was the only thing that Andrew every truly lost himself in. While he was on that stage, none of his problems mattered anymore. Even the poor souls who had lost their lives over the Party Emerald faded into the background, as Andrew W.K. rocked a sick show and gave his all into pleasing the crowd. He was still running on a sugar high from the candy binge earlier, and he rode that wave of hyperactive ecstasy into a frothing, flailing storm of party.

The crowd responded in kind, getting right into the groove and really showing Andrew W.K. some love. When Andrew drove into a killer cover of ‘Silent Night’, the party people in the audience opened up the pit and went fucking berserk. It was an awesome night, and exactly the kind of distraction Andrew needed.

As Andrew slammed the final chord of his set the whole joint went bananas. Everyone was loving it. Even the bar staff and security couldn’t help but hoot and holler at Andrew after the party performance they had just witnessed. It seemed that everyone in the place having a kickass time. That is, until a bottle of Faygo flew through the air and struck Andrew in the side of the head.

The bottle exploded, spewing its sticky liquid all over the stage. Andrew W.K. was soaked. But more than that, he was hurt. Not physically (the dude just fought vampire gangsters, a bottle of Faygo isn’t going to bring him down), but emotionally. He was hurt that someone could be so rude at the end of a performance. He looked into the crowd to see who could be so cruel, and the saw the culprits immediately.

There was a pack of maybe two dozen juggalos in the crowd, staring at Andrew with intense hatred. They lobbed a few more bottles of Faygo at him, but he was ready this time and deflected them with lightning reflexes.

“Hey, man, I get that you don’t like my music, but you don’t have to be jerks about it.” Andrew W.K. said into his microphone.

“This has nothing to do with music,” the head juggalo spoke up, “this is personal.”

With that, two juggalos descended from the ceiling and landed on the stage on either side of Andrew W.K., and attacked him simultaneously. One of them was wielding a chainsaw that said ‘Chuck’ along the side of it, with the other juggalo had only her bare hands, but those were on fire. All of the juggalos were in full clown make-up.

Andrew ducked and rolled backwards, hoping that his two assailants would simply hit each other, but these juggalos were too crafty for that. They lunged at Andrew in unison, one striking high while the other struck low. Together, they fought as one unit, truly like a brother and sister, like they were of one mind in the great juggalo family.

Andrew was doing his best just to hold his ground against the two juggalos on stage while the juggalos in the crowd continued to throw Faygo at him. The rest of Andrew’s audience were doing their best to escape, but many of the juggalos were hassling them too. Finally one extra-large juggalo brother lifted a poor crowd member above his head and threw him across the room.

“That’s it!” Andrew shouted, while dodging a chainsaw swing and catching an incoming bottle of Faygo, “you can pick on me, that’s fine! But _no one_ picks on my fans!”

Andrew W.K. swung the Faygo bottle overhead, bringing in down directly onto the top of the chainsaw-wielding juggalo’s noggin, AKA Nature’s snooze button. The juggalo was down for the count. That still left the juggalo with the flaming fists, as well as a crowd of angry juggalo brothers and sisters.

The juggalo with the flaming fists cried out in anguish as he brother fell. As she raised her fists to the heavens the fire spread, consuming her entire body. She was nothing but a writhing mess of fury, flames, and clown make-up. Andrew W.K. rolled out of the way just in time to survive her launching forwards like a fireball of death, but as he did he took another bottle of Faygo to the back of the head.

“FEEL THE POWER OF THE DARK CARNIVAL!” The flaming juggalo screamed as she shot jets of white-hot flames from her arms. Andrew grabbed a nearby bottle of Faygo, hoping to defend himself with it. The bottle deflected one jet of flames, but it exploded as it did so spraying the wicked elixir all over the room.

Andrew jumped off the stage to avoid the next few fire blasts, and somersaulted as he landed to dodge an incoming bottle of Faygo.

“Look, guys, I really don’t know what your problem with me is. I’m sorry if I’ve done something to offend you or-“ Andrew began.

“IT’S NOT WHAT YOU’VE DONE, ANDREW W.K., IT’S WHAT YOU _ARE_! OUR MASTERS HAVE MARKED YOU FOR DEATH, MR. W.K.” The flaming juggalo shouted, her fire turning white from the heat of her intense clown rage.

“Hey Andrew,” called the bartender, who for some reason hadn’t tried to escape yet, “I think you should fight fire with fire.”

The bartended threw Andrew W.K. a couple of shot glasses, and then rolled a bottle across the floor. Andrew grabbed the bottle and read the label, while sidestepping another bottle of Faygo.

“Hmm…” Andrew W.K. pondered the bottle in front of him, “Party tip: Sriracha shots!”

Andrew poured the chilli sauce into the shot glasses and downed them quickly. Then he poured some more. He repeated this process while dipping and weaving between juggalos trying to grapple him or hit him with Faygo. After some time, the sriracha eventually began to build inside Andrew, igniting his own internal fire. While nowhere near as intense as the chilli wings he had eaten the night before, it was enough to trigger his innate chilli powers.

Andrew W.K. leaped back up onto the stage in one swift motion, landing directly in front of the burning juggalo. She punched him directly in the gut with a flaming fist, letting out a pretty hardcore shriek as she did so, like a crazy Bruce Lee. The punch was good, and the juggalo’s fist was white-hot, but Andrew was unshaken. He simply absorbed the fire. Then he quickly grabbed the juggalo by the forearm while her fist was still in contact with his stomach. He stared her directly in the eyes as a familiar twisted grin appeared on his face. The juggalo glared at Andrew with an expression of pure hatred, while Andrew W.K. looked back with an expression of pure madness.

This juggalo’s fire seemed to be fading. As she looked down at her fist she noticed Andrew W.K. was absorbing her heat into himself. She was losing power, while Andrew started to glow ever brighter with a fire of his own.

“HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?” she yelled, although he voice was starting to lose its power.

The juggalo fell to her knees, smouldering, while Andrew began to levitate about a foot above the stage, glowing from inside with the light of some brilliant fire. He then took a deep breath, dropped back down to the stage, closed his eyes and stopped glowing. The formerly-flaming juggalo keeled over sideways, smoking rising from her broken body. She was still conscious, but she felt weaker than she ever had in her life.

Andrew walked up to the keyboard, and adjusted the microphone to be level with his mouth (it had been knocked out of position in the scuffle). He took another deep breath in, his eyes still closed, and calmly placed his fingers over the keys. A lone bottle of Faygo flew past his head, fruitlessly.

His eyes shot open the moment his fingers fell on the keys. The chord he played felt hard and raw. Every juggalo in the room was shocked still. All eyes fell upon Andrew, unblinking, unbelieving. And then Andrew began to play.

This wasn’t the fun party music that he had been playing earlier, as party was no longer what he was aiming to inspire. These juggalos needed something else. These juggalos needed _introspection_.

The keyboard wandered, drifted through the minds of all the juggalos in the building, and their minds wandered with the keyboard. The mind of each juggalo explored within itself. As Andrew played, the juggalos stared, and their juggalo minds were taken away, to some far-off place. Some far-off place deep within themselves. They were tourists, adventures, explorers within their own minds.

Andrew W.K. kept playing. His music probed further, deeper into the human mind than he ever had before. A single tear rolled down his face. A bottle of Faygo fell from the suddenly limp fingers of a brother. It rolled harmlessly away, coming to a stop softly against the bar. The bartender stared at the scene before him, confused. He thought of his place in the world, in the vast cosmos of existence, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

As the keyboard built to a dazzling crescendo, some of the juggalos put their arms around each other. Some other slumped to the ground, sitting on the floor and looking up at Andrew as he worked his instrument with expert tenderness and precision. The sounds coming from the keyboard increased in tempo, in volume, in tension, gradually rising and rising until finally, in a climactic moment of ecstasy, the music came to a thrilling conclusion. Andrew stopped playing. He simply stood in front of the keyboard, panting.

There was silence, but for the sound of breathing, for perhaps a minute, perhaps two. No one wanted to spoil the moment, no one knew what to say. Then, as the pause became unbearable, the formerly flaming juggalo on the stage rose to her feet.

“Andrew…” she began, seeming unsure of what to say and how to say it, “… Andrew, we were wrong. We didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”

“I know.” Andrew said, and he pulled her into a hug. All of the juggalos still conscious cheered.

“We… we were told we had to kill you. They made us think that you were an enemy of the Dark Carnival, and that you had to die. Thankfully, your song awoke in us our true selves. We were able to explore ourselves, under the guidance of your performance, until we found the truth. We don’t hate you, Andrew W.K. We don’t like your music, but we respect you as a person.”

“Thanks.” Andrew said, “but I need you to tell me: who set you against me? Who is it that wants me dead?”

“I… I can’t remember. They covered their tracks well. But I can remember where it happened. Follow us, we’ll take you to the place.”


	7. Hand on the Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the monastery, 1998-Andrew meets the other trainees. Meanwhile, the Juggalos take Andrew somewhere scary!

**1998**

Days had passed since Andrew W.K. began his training. It had been hard at first. Brother Lao’s methods were strange and confusing, and Andrew had found it difficult to see what the point of it all was.

After being bombarded with chocolate milk, Andrew had faced many trials and challenges. He had been forced to eat nachos with his hands tied behind his back until he threw up. He had to solve jigsaw puzzles while uncomfortably loud music played, switching unpredictably from pumping hard rock to serene and enlightening classical music to rough ‘n’ rowdy country music. He had been thrown down a water slide in a sleeping bag, feed gummi bears from a beer bong and suspended from his feet above a pit of puppies, which would ceaselessly lick his face as he dangled. Brother Lao instructed Andrew to perform fifty push-ups and five minutes of solid windmilling every day to stay in shape. No one had made any effort to explain to Andrew why any of this was happening.

All of this “training” had taken place within the monastery, mostly under the guidance of Brother Lao, but with occasional sessions with other monks at the monastery. Brother Pathik had taken Andrew for long sessions of meditation in bean bags, while Sister Denton drilled him tirelessly on the art of high-fives. In all this time, Andrew never saw the outside world. He never ever saw so much as a glimpse of the sky through a window. The monastery was all he knew.

One morning, when Andrew was going through his daily exercises, Brother Lao entered his room. “Ah, hard at work, I see. Nice windmilling.” He said.

“Thanks, Brother!” Andrew replied, his hair still spinning, “what are you after? Our training session isn’t for another hour.”

“We’ll be doing things a little bit differently today. I think it’s time for you to meet the other trainees.”

Andrew stopped windmilling and stood upright.

“Am I finally going to find out why I’m here?” Andrew asked, desperately.

“Andrew, as long as you still need to ask the question you will never know the answer.”

Andrew cocked his head to one side, a blank look on his face.

“That was a ‘no’”, Brother Lao clarified, “follow me, and things will become a little clearer.”

Lao lead Andrew to the same large underground room where he had experienced his first training session. The milk had long since been mopped up, but otherwise the room was mostly unchanged. It was in a state of permanent disorder, as if cleaning had been forbidden.

The raised dais now had a dozen deck chairs on it, arranged in a semi-circle facing a large bean bag. Most of the deck chairs already had trainees reclining on them. Some of the trainees had begun striking up conversations with each other, however the tone of the room was still one of apprehension and confusion. Andrew took a seat on the only available chair, and Brother Lao dropped himself onto the beanbag, instantly settling into a cosy and relaxed position. When Brother Lao sat, the room instantly went silent.

“Good morning, my pupils!” Brother Lao addressed the room, a big grin across his face, “Today is a very special day. Today all of you will take your first real steps on your journey towards unlocking the power of positive partying.

“Many of you have already been training here for some time. Some of you have been here months, other weeks. Some merely a few days. None-the-less, you are all equals here today, starting the same journey at the same point. So if you have questions, feel free to ask; there is a good chance your fellow students are wondering the same thing.”

“Ok, then. What’s the point of this?” Andrew asked, “I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, I really do. But I don’t want to join some wacky desert religion. I don’t want to be a monk, man. So what am I doing here? What’s the point of all of this so-called ‘training’?”

Andrew expected Brother Lao to be shocked, or perhaps annoyed. Instead his smile broadened and he fell even deeper into the bean bag. One of the other students took up the role of criticizing Andrew and started laughing.

“You mean you don’t even know that much? Hahaha! What kind of an idiot are you? Did these monks just drag you in off the street? Have you even _heard_ of the mystical Temple of Ten-Thousand Parties? Are you _really_ partying that soft?” The student laughing at Andrew had bright red hair, short and spikey and most likely dyed. He wore the same white robes as all of the other students.

“Now, Erik, you must understand that each student comes to us in a different manner. Andrew has indeed not heard anything about our monastery before he woke up in one of our beds. He didn’t find us, we found him. His question is, therefore, quite reasonable.” Brother Lao spoke calmly as ever, and then turned to face Andrew W.K., “Andrew, I am afraid I cannot fully answer your question. To discover the meaning of all of this training, you must search within yourself and find your own answers. I will, however, explain our situation somewhat.

“This is, as my student Erik Weisz alluded, the Temple of Ten-Thousand Parties. Here monks have taught and practiced the art of partying for thousands of years.

“You were not brought to us by mere coincidence, Andrew. I believe you were brought to us by the forces of Party itself. Destiny or God or fate or something like that lead you to this place, because you are meant for great partying. It is for this reason that I have brought it upon myself to train you, and to present you before the group of other students after only a few days in the monastery.”

Brother Lao held out a hand, into which a bottle of beer landed, having apparently fallen from the ceiling. Lao opened the bottle with his eye socket and continued talking.

“All of you, my dear pupils, are meant for great partying. I will do all I can to help you achieve this, but ultimately it is up to you. I have gathered you all together in one room like this so that you may get to know each other. Help each other grow, learn from each other, and become the best group of partiers you can. Do not try to impress each other; instead, try to inspire each other.”

Brother Lao then stood up effortlessly, took a big mouthful of beer, and then clicked his fingers. The room immediately exploded into a shower of glitter and confetti.

 

From then on, the pupils enjoyed group meals in a large dining hall. Fraternization was encouraged, and many group activities were conducted. Andrew W.K. got to know and become close with all of the other students. Many of them were just as confused as he was, although most were eager to continue their training and become Master Partiers.

Erik Weisz, on the other hand, kept his distance. He had a clear natural talent for partying, but seemed to prefer his own company to that of his fellow students. He was friendly and warm with the Brothers and Sisters of the monastery, but when it came to the students it was as if he saw them as hindrances to his progress. And he never forgave Andrew for the imagined slight in the training room on that first day.

In Erik’s mind, Andrew W.K. had humiliated him. The gentle address of Brother Lao become built up into a brutal scalding, and Andrew’s innocent question festered in Erik’s mind until it became an outright attack. To Erik, this justified his policy of separation and his icy attitude towards his fellow students.

When it came to practical challenges, Erik excelled. His sleight of hand made him exceptionally good at many of the games and competitions the Brothers organized, and his experience and thorough knowledge of the history of the Temple awarded him a distinct advantage in the more academic aspects of party training. Beer pong in particular was a sport that Erik could dominate with little effort, bamboozling his opponents with his superior skill and reflexes.

Andrew W.K., on the other hand, was still struggling long after the group sessions began. He still didn’t see the point of party training, and with no clear guiding light he had no ambition, no will to succeed. At the same time, when he saw some of the other students party really _really_ hard, he couldn’t help but see the beauty in it.

“Andrew, could you chill with me for a mo’?” Brother Lao asked after a particularly lacklustre set of fist-pumps and jump-kicks.

“Sure, Bro.” They both sat on two bean bags as the other students hurried out of the room on their way to lunch (it was nacho day, so they were all keen to get there early) (it was always nacho day).

“Stop me if I’m wrong, but I’m getting the impression that your heart’s not really in this.” said Brother Lao.

“You’re absolutely correct,” Andrew said, no trace of emotion in his voice, “I still have no idea what I’m doing or why I’m here. I don’t want to join your crazy party cult. You guys keep me fed, give me a place to sleep, and that’s cool. That’s enough to keep me running around like I’m your pet performing cute tricks for a tasty bone. But you can’t expect me to be one of the best. I can’t be like Dez, or Erik, or Shazza or any of those other guys. Those are partiers. I’m just a guy who got lost in the desert.”

“Andrew W.K., you are far more than that. You have so much potential. With the right motivation, you could be great. I see no reason why you could not surpass all of the other students here. All of the monks, too. Andrew, if you really found your groove you could be one of the all-time greats.” Brother Lao said emphatically.

“Sorry, not interested.”

“Hehe, I knew you would say that.” To prove his point, Brother Lao pulled an envelope out of a pocket of his robe, opened it and revealed a piece of paper saying only ‘not interested’, which he quickly discarded. “But maybe I can change your mind. Come with me, there is something you must see.”

They stood up, and Brother Lao lead Andrew down the hallway to the large dark staircase they had descended on Andrew’s first day in the monastery.

“Come on, Bro, this isn’t going to change anything,” said Andrew, “I’ve already seen the fancy party room. It’s cool and all, but I’d much rather be back home working on my music.”

“Don’t you see, Andrew? You _are_ working on your music.” Brother Lao grinned wider than he ever had before, showing a full set of shiny white teeth. At the bottom of the stairs, instead of walking down the long hallway towards the party room, Brother Lao poked a couple of stones with his index finger, and then said the words “rubber bubble gum ball”. The ground shook slightly beneath their feet, and the wall opened up, revealing stairs leading even deeper underground.

“Woah!” Andrew said.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Andrew. It’s time I explained why I felt so strongly about you. Why I have insisted on continuing your training. Why I believe deep in my heart with more faith than anything else that you are destined for great things.” Brother Lao said as he began walking down the dark and dusty staircase, “Andrew W.K., it’s time I told you about the Party Emerald.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Present Day**

Andrew W.K. followed the Juggalos to the alleyway behind the club, where several large vans covered in Hatchetman stickers were waiting. There was a strange smell emanating from within, but Andrew was not going to mention it and risk angering the Juggalos. He hesitantly climbed into a van, and buckled a seatbelt made mostly of duct tape as they took off.

After a long a winding drive past the outskirts of the city, with ICP blasting on the stereo the entire trip, they finally arrived at what looked like an old stone cathedral. Gothic spires towered above the surrounding woods, and on a stormier night one may believe it to be the abode of all sorts of spooky draculas and things. But Andrew suspected that what really lay within was far more sinister.

“This is where it happened. They told us that there was going to be free Faygo, but when we got inside…” the driver Juggalo began, clearly having a hard time remembering that horrible night.

“That’s ok, you guys have done enough.” Andrew W.K. said, “I can take it from here.”

He stepped out of the car and slowly walked towards the large ominous double doors. The Juggalo vans drove away, leaving Andrew W.K. abandoned. Andrew was not disheartened, though. He had come this far, now he simply _had_ to find out who was behind all of this.

He shoved the doors open and strode in, calling out “knock knock!” and just looking like such a badass. All was dark, but Andrew could hear a voice from deep inside calling back to him.

“Ah, Andrew W.K.! So, you finally found us!” The doors slammed shut behind Andrew, leaving the room pitch black.


	8. The Moving Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew learns about a prophecy, and is shown a big green stone that some readers may find a bit familiar.

**1998**

As Andrew followed Brother Lao down the secret staircase, the hidden in opening in the wall closed behind them, sealing the pair in total darkness. Andrew had to hold on to the back of Brother Lao’s robe to follow him. There was a strong smell of sweat throughout the staircase. Not a dank or mildewy smell like one might expect in a cave or long abandoned dungeon, this stink smelt alive like a gym or a mosh pit.

They walked for more than an hour, along many twists and turns. After descending for a long way, Andrew found that they were suddenly ascending. Eventually, the many intricacies of the dark tunnel were too much, and Andrew couldn’t tell which direction they were going in, nor did he know if they were higher or lower in elevation than when they started. Just when Andrew’s feet were starting to feel sore they reached a long, flat corridor. Andrew could tell it was flat, because the floor was being illuminated by a faint green light coming from somewhere up ahead.

Andrew let go of Brother Lao’s robe once they got close enough to the light source that Andrew could at least see the monk in front of him. He could make out no details, but there seemed to be patterns or drawings or inscriptions of some kind on the walls, floor and ceiling.

“Now, Andrew,” Brother Lao said, stopping for a moment, “you must make sure to follow me very closely for this next place. This corridor is booby-trapped.”

“Boobytrapped? Why would you need to boobytrap this hidden secret corridor? It’s not like anyone could find it without knowing the password anyway.” Asked Andrew.

“Party tip:” Lao replied, “boobytrap spelled backwards is partyboob.”

Lao moved on, satisfied that he had explained thoroughly, and Andrew repeated Lao’s movements as closely as he could. When Lao jumped over some unseen line, Andrew did the same. When Lao ducked and weaved erratically along the passageway, Andrew mimicked as best he could. When Lao finally did a double cartwheel down the length of the hallway Andrew started to get sceptical, but cartwheeled just the same.

“I lied about the boobytraps.” Brother Lao confessed when they reached the end of the corridor. “Well, I lied about there being boobytraps. The partyboob thing was true though. It was fun, though, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess it was.” Andrew admitted. It had been a long time since he had attempted a cartwheel, and he was surprised with himself that he was able to pull it off.

“It is important to be honest, Andrew, but it is also important to have fun.” Lao instructed.

Now that we was no longer dodging and dancing around the dark tunnel, Andrew could get a good look at the light source. It was a large stone door at the end of the corridor, with green light spilling from around the frame. There were some Chinese characters carved into the door, and they too were glowing faintly.

“What does it say?” Andrew asked.

“When it’s time to party we will always party hard.” Brother Lao said, speaking as much to the door as he was to Andrew.

There was a loud groaning sound, and the door slowly began to open by itself. As it did, bright green light flooded the corridor, and Andrew had to shield his eyes. Eventually, he adjusted to the brightness, and gazed into the open room before him.

The room wasn’t large. It contained only a single pedestal, sitting on a raised platform, surrounded by walls covered with strange carvings and inscriptions. Sitting on top of the pedestal was a large green rock, evidently the source of the light in the room.

“What is that thing?” Andrew asked, gaping at the object before him.

“It has been called by many names, in many languages. Once it was considered to heal the sick, and was called the Grand Panacea. It has been used as a weapon, where it was called the Annihilator of Being. From time to time it has been worshipped as a god, or as the container of a god. Since it has come to reside here, we have called it the Prophecy Stone.”

“How is it glowing like that?”

“How? I don’t know. Science, probably. But I wanted to show you this, because it began glowing the moment your plane crashed.”

“What?”

“Somehow, you and this stone are linked. That is why I have been so determined to train you. I believe you are the one spoken of in the prophecy surrounding this stone.”

“That’s crazy! What does the prophecy even say?”

“Ah, now that is still a bit of mystery. The prophecy is written on the walls all around you. While many of these inscriptions are in Classical Chinese, the prophecy itself is written in a far older script that we have had difficulty translating. It does speak of a chosen one, as so many of these sorts of prophecies do. This chosen one will be able to unlock the power of the Stone. From there, the details get a bit fuzzy. Some believe the chosen one was meant to destroy all partying. But I take a different interpretation. I believe the word ‘destroy’ is actually a mistranslation of a word meaning ‘restore’. But really, nobody knows for sure.”

“So you think I’m the chosen one? And some people think I’m going to _destroy_ all partying?” Andrew was starting to get stressed out at this point, but Brother Lao remained serene as ever.

“Some people think that. Regardless, this seems to be your destiny. You are meant for great partying. I had hoped to be the one who could teach you, but if you don’t see the point to my lessons…”

“It’s not your lessons I object to, Brother, it’s just… it’s just that this is all so ridiculous! I mean, I can’t be some sort of party Messiah or whatever! It’s all so crazy!” Andrew was pretty close to flipping the fuck out.

“Life is often ridiculous, Andrew. I can’t tell you how to feel about all of this, but I thought you needed to be shown. You needed to see for yourself why I brought you here. I had hoped it might inspire you to party harder, but I see I was wrong.” For the first time since they had met, Andrew thought he saw Lao’s smile fade slightly.

Andrew stared at the inscriptions on the walls, hoping for something that would help him make sense of it all. Many of the pictures were meaningless without the accompanying text, but there were several for which Andrew could get the gist. One showed a bunch of people cowering, many crying or clutching their hair, as a man with long dark hair stood above them holding the glowing stone above his head. Could that be Andrew’s destiny? To subjugate people using the power of the Prophecy Stone? To destroy partying?

Another picture showed the same man playing a keyboard. He was grinning, and surrounded by people who were also smiling and dancing. They all looked so happy.

“Can you read any of this?” Andrew asked Brother Lao.

“Some of it. Like I said, a lot of it is still a bit of a mystery, but I can read it as well as anyone else.”

“Can you tell me what is going on in this picture?” Andrew pointed to the one with the man playing a keyboard.

“I can understand most of this one, actually. The man rocking the keys is the chosen one. If I’m correct, then that’s you. This is what the chosen one is destined to do - to bring joy to the world.” Brother Lao stepped closer to the picture, pointing things out as he explained them. “In this corner you see men throwing down their weapons and embracing in brotherly love. Over here, a woman contemplating suicide has flushed her poison down the dunny, and picked up a party blower instead. Oh, and this is my favourite part, here right near the keyboard. This is an old man, very sick. He is perhaps moments from death, and yet he is still happy. The last of his days are spent partying. You must forgive me for relating to the old fella the most; it is only natural for one like me.”

“But, how does all of this happen? Just from partying?”

“This is what I have been trying to teach you, Andrew. I’m sorry, you must be more of a visual learner, I should have showed you a picture sooner.”

“I still don’t understand. How does partying help anyone?”

“Partying helps everyone, Andrew. Helping people _is_ partying. Spreading joy is partying. Partying isn’t something one does for oneself alone. I mean, sure, you can party alone, and everyone needs to be able to make themselves feel good, but the true power of positive partying is that you can make _other people_ feel good too. A truly skilled partier fills every room with their energy and spirit, and all are compelled to party. Good vibes overcome all, Andrew, and as the chosen one you are destined to have the best vibes of all.”

Andrew stood in silence for a moment, gazing at the picture. Finally, he turned to face his teacher and said, “Brother, I think I’d like to resume my training.”

Brother Lao’s face lit up immediately. He beamed with the biggest grin Andrew had ever seen.

“Excellent! We’ll begin as soon as we get back. For now, take all of the time you need to examine these images further, and feel free to ask me about anything. I’m afraid many of these inscriptions are untranslatable, but I may be some help nonetheless.”

Andrew was grateful, and spent some more time walking around the room, looking at the pictures. He liked the idea of the power of positive partying. It sounded like everything he had tried to do with his music, but never quite been able to nail. But for every depiction of the chosen one bringing joy, there was another that was harder to understand. Some showed the chosen one using the power of the Prophecy Stone to kill people, to submit them to his will, and to just generally be dick. Others showed ridiculous or nonsensical imagery. In one it even looked like the chosen one was playing a guitar shaped like a slice of pizza. Crazy, right?

But as Andrew continued to stare at these images, he began to feel increasingly strange. At first he thought it was the feeling of being watched. That would be normal, since Brother Lao was in the room and probably actually was watching him. But then he began to feel like he was being pulled backwards. Almost as if he was getting heavier, but if gravity was sideways. He turned around, and continued to feel the slight tug towards the centre of the room. It was the Prophecy Stone calling him.

Brother Lao, it turns out, was not actually watching Andrew, but had stopped to read some of the inscriptions to see if he could catch something he had missed earlier. That’s why he didn’t see it when Andrew walked towards the pedestal, reached out his hand a placed it on top of the glowing emerald.

Brother Lao noticed the moment Andrew made contact, however, because two things happened as soon as he did. The stone stopped glowing, leaving them in total darkness, and the floor shook violently.

Andrew immediately jerked his hand away, but it was too late. A loud rumbling could be heard from the passageway leading into the room, but nothing could be seen.

“Andrew, what did you do?” Brother Lao exclaimed, not quite freaking out but certainly raising his voice.

“I’m sorry, I just had to touch it!” Andrew clung to the pedestal as the ground began to grind and groan. They could both hear the tunnelling collapsing, the sound of stone hitting stone echoing at first, until the once vast hallway collapsed enough to prevent any echo.

“Grab onto me!” Lao instructed, and Andrew obeyed. Brother Lao used his superior darkvision to navigate the quickly collapsing chamber. He ducked and weaved around falling slabs, and Andrew struggled to keep up. Sand had begun falling into the tunnel from openings in the ceiling. A fortuitous arrangement of fallen columns and rocks had rendered one of these openings accessible, and Brother Lao went for it, scrambling over broken pillars and leaping from foothold to foothold with Andrew in tow.

Finally, they pushed through a barrier of fallen sand, and after a bit of clambering and digging broke into daylight. They coughed and sputtered to get the nasty sand out of their mouths, and Andrew collapsed onto his back right near the opening. They were miles from the monastery, with sand in every office, but they were alive and safe. They had a long walk ahead of them.

“Well,” said Brother Lao, slightly out of breath, “I guess I wasn’t lying about the boobytraps after all.”


	9. Tear It Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew kicks some ass.

**Present Day**

The room was pitch black, but seeing in the dark was no problem for Andrew. He immediately spotted dudes in spooky cultist-looking robes just like the ones that robbed the Museum of Natural History and killed Madame Wintergrade. The conniving cultists stood in rows along both sides of the church with deep hoods covering their faces, posed like they were ready to brawl. Standing behind the altar at the end of the church was a cultist in particularly fancy robes, lined in gold. He also had a red and gold mask on that covered his entire face, with no openings even for his eyes or mouth. It was this masked cultist who spoke.

“We had hoped that those disgusting clown people would finish you off, but I always knew they couldn’t even complete a task that simple. I knew they would lead you here, where you could meet an even more fitting demise.” The mask was covered in ornate patterns, which seemed to move as he spoke, whirling and rearranging. He leapt up on top of the marble altar, his fingers crackling with electricity.

The cultists at the sides of the church moved in, all at once, to attack Andrew. Without wasting a second Andrew puked into his hands, only it wasn’t spew that he found in his fingers when he was done. He now clasped two wooden drumsticks, slightly sticky, which he brought up to his defence just as the cultists reached him.

While spinning one stick in his hand, he used the other to deflect an incoming blow from a katana wielded by a robed rogue. The blade shattered and the cultist was thrown backwards. With the spinning drumstick Andrew managed to catch a trio of incoming throwing stars which had been aimed at him. Moving the drumsticks with grindcore speed Andrew W.K. met the incoming horde of hooded hoodlums, knocking aside cultists as one would knock over a crash cymbal at the end of a particularly energetic performance. Andrew was in the zone, and there was no way some spooky cultists would be able to take him down, no matter how mysterious they were.

Andrew’s assailants were numerous, and seemed to get up every time he threw them down, but Andrew showed no signs of tiring. The cultists pooled around him, depending on their sheer number to overwhelm our hedonistic hero. Andrew kept hitting, pummelling and paradiddling but the cultists showed no signs of slowing. The masked cultist was not joining the fray, but rather stood atop the altar cackling like some kind of psycho.

With a yell of fury Andrew banged his sticks together as hard as he could, sending a shockwave in all direction, throwing the cultists to the ground. He then turned to face the masked man, ready to rock. But as soon as Andrew began to leap for the altar, a new wave of cultists descended from the rafters above. One landed directly on top of Andrew mid-lead, pinning him to the ground. Andrew grabbed the cultist by the collar and headbutted him. There was a hollow ‘thud’ and Andrew felt as if he had just smacked his head against solid metal. Then he suddenly realised why the cultists were able to get back up every time he hit them, and how there were able to be so many of them.

Andrew W.K. lifted the cultist pinning him and threw the villain across the church. As the cultist hit the wall his hood fell off. Instead of the frenzied face of a fanatic, Andrew saw the cold mechanical hatred of a robot. Throwing a spinning sidekick at the nearest attack, Andrew knocked off another hood, revealing yet another shinny metallic grimace. All of the cultists were robots!

“So you have discovered the secret of my Cultbots™!” The masked cultist called from the altar, “Now you see how resistance is futile! I personally programmed each other these Cultbots™ myself, so I can attest that each one is flawlessly designed for your destruction, Andrew W.K.!”

The masked cultist let out an especially heart-felt cackle and then shot lightning from his hands towards Andrew, who dodged just in time but landed right next to a Cultbot™ swinging a huge jagged poleaxe. Andrew ducked beneath the swing, barely managing to save his luscious locks from an unwanted trim.

“Robots, eh? Then I don’t have to hold back!” Andrew yelled, then he raised his drumsticks in the air and tapped them together four times in an internationally recognised symbol of imminent rock.

Candles all over the church suddenly sprung to life, filling the whole space with bright orange light. The stained glass windows seemed to glow as Andrew began air drumming so fucking hard that entire building began to shake. Any Cultbots™ that got close instantly got hit in time to Andrew’s amazing semi-imaginary drum solo. Andrew W.K. took his performance around the room, leaping between pews so he could belt out his rhythmic rhapsody on any and all Cultbots™ in the room.  Slaps to their metallic faces were his hi-hat, kicks to their robo-guts were his bass drum, and the sound of robot explosions were his symbols. Andrew pounded away at the Cultbots™ so that the church was filled with the sounds of just a really sweet drum solo. The masked cultist tried to his Andrew with his hand-lightning, but Andrew deflected it with his sticks and used it as party of his performance.

Eventually Andrew knew that he had to wrap up his solo because he was running out of robots to hit. When he got to the last one he gave his biggest hit so that the robot disintegrated into an explosion of pure rock ‘n’ roll. A depiction of Jesus in a stained glass window above the alter nodded in respect, and gave Andrew a thumbs up. Andrew gave a thumb back, and then turned his attention to the cultist in the mask, walking over a pile of scrap metal and shredded robes to get to him.

“What? You destroyed them all! How… how could any human manage such a thing? Those Cultbots™ were state-of-the-art!”

“More like state-of-the-fart!” Andrew called out, throwing a drumstick like a dart and hitting the masked cultist right in the gut. The masked man clutched his belly and fell over groaning.

“Please don’t kill me!” the cultist pleaded, “I’m not a robot! I don’t want to die!”

Andrew stood over his opponents crippled body, candlelight flickering around him and shimmering in his crazed eyes.

“Who set this up? Who’s behind this?” Andrew demanded.

“I- I can’t tell you. Please don’t make me say it! I’ll do anything else! Anything you want! Anything except say that!” the grounded goon grovelled as Andrew towered above him, spinning his remaining drumstick in his fingers.

“Why can’t you tell me? What will they do to you?”

“I can’t say! Please, mister Wilkes-Krier, please-” Andrew’s fallen foe began, but was cut off by playing card to the throat, which cut open his jugular, killing him.

“Why does that keep happening?” Andrew yelled in exasperation as he spun around to see who threw the deadly card. He a woman drop from the rafters wearing a bright red robe. She wasn’t wearing a hood, so he knew she was human. She had short blond hair, an eyepatch over her left eye and a cruel smile on her face. Her robe was different from that of the other cultists. It was lighter, more simple, and strangely familiar.

“Your party tricks are neat, Andrew W.K. I’ve got a few a tricks myself.  Wanna see?” She smirked as she pulled a party popper from out of her sleeve. Andrew was only just able to summersault out of the way in time as she fired, leaving a smouldering, streamer-filled crater where the altar used to be.

Andrew lifted a hand into the air, summoning a bolt of red lightning which brought with it his pizza-shaped guitar. Andrew sent a tremolo-heavy note towards his attacker, which should have been enough to incapacitate anyone. The cultist, however, pulled a saxophone from inside of her robe and deflected the guitar note with a long, raspy note of her own, bittersweet and full of soul. The two notes met in between the two combatants, causing a musical explosion which sent bits of church flying in all directions.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Andrew asked, shocked at his opponent’s technique.

“Well, I learnt from someone who learnt from the best. You think you’re the only one who knows the power of positive partying? Please, Andy-pandy, you don’t know shit.” The woman replied, and then put on foot up on top of a pile of rubble and let forth a bluesy blast of tenor turmoil, which Andrew W.K. had to struggle to defend against.

“What you’re doing isn’t right! You’ve killed people! That’s not what partying is about!” Andrew yelled over the ruckus, as he sweep-picked his hardest against his attacker’s aural assault, “Partying is supposed to make people feel good! All you’ve done is make people feel dead!”

Andrew W.K. cracked his volume as high as it could go and blasted a single note dripping with so much vibrato the rubble in the church began floating above the ground. The saxophonist found herself lifted off the ground and momentary broke her concentration. That moment as enough, as Andrew unleashed a flurry of arpeggios which slammed her against the far wall. While she was staggered, Andrew dropped into some harsh, fast tremolo riffs which were so fucking metal that her saxophone shattered under the weight of it.

“You may have won this time, Andrew W.K., but you’ll never defeat all of us! Your partying is strong, but we follow someone even stronger than you! And with the Party Emerald in our possession, the power of positive partying is ours to do with as we wish!” she yelled at our partying protagonist, bitter in defeat. She pulled from her sleeve a small bottle of glitter, which she threw to the ground, shattering it. A cloud of sparkles filled the room, and by the time it had cleared she was gone without a trace. Andrew was left standing in the ruins of a church surrounded by broken robots.

“This is impossible! How can these people know about the Party Emerald? How can they know about the power of positive partying? Unless…” Andrew W.K. jumped into the air and began surfing on a stream of mozzarella cheese.

“I think I know who’s behind this now,” Andrew said to himself as he surfed southwards. “Next stop, Las Vegas.”


	10. I Get Wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the monastary in the past, Andrew partakes in the Good Time Trials, hoping to ascend to the next level of his party training.

 

Ever since he saw he the Prophecy Stone, Andrew attacked his studies with a renewed vigour. He put his all into every training exercise the monks threw at him, and it showed in the enormous progress he suddenly began making. Within a few weeks he was partying harder than students who had been there for years. By the time the bi-annual Good Time Trials came around, Brother Lao felt Andrew was ready to take the test to see if he could advance to the next level of party training.

At the monastery there were six levels of party training, and three different grades for party graduates. The first level, where Andrew was at this point in our story, was a Junior Jammer. After successfully completing the first level of Good Time Trials, one could advance to Assblasting Amateur, and from there could progress through the levels to Freshfaced Freak, Inspiring Initiate, Practiced Partier and finally Salty Senior, the highest level of training. Once graduating from the Salty Senior rung, trainees were eligible to become monks, or could instead travel the world with the esteemed title of Party Proficient.

Usually each level took about a year to complete, but everyone at the monastery thought Andrew W.K. was already ready to ascending to Freshfaced Freak, and many thought that he would be even more suited as an Inspiring Initiate despite his short time at the monastery. It was clear to all that he was a party prodigy. No one could believe that he was the same guy who was so resisting of training just a few weeks earlier. No one understood the change except for Brother Lao.

When the day of the Good Time Trials arrived, Andrew and the other eligible trainees were guided by their teachers along a set of winding corridors usually off-limits to the trainees. The corridor opened up into a large chamber, at the far end of which was a huge stone lion.

“Who put the bop in the bop-shoo-bop?” the lion asked in a deep and rumbling voice, as if the Earth itself was asking.

“Who put the ram in the ramma-lamma ding-dong?” the monks responded in unison. The lion lay down and opened its mouth wide, revealing a glowing passage within. The monks took their students through the lion’s mouth and down the strange stone passageway, until they finally arrived at the hall in which the Good Time Trials would take place.

There were rows of deck chairs, some already occupied by eager spectators, all facing towards a huge stage. There was a dark red curtain in front of the stage so that the trainees couldn’t see what was waiting for them behind it.

The trainees were guided to a backstage area. It was small and cramped and smelt kind of weird. Brother Lao explained to Andrew that this is how backstage areas are supposed to be. There was a ute in the middle of it even though there seemed to possible way to drive a ute into the monastery, let alone into the backstage area of the Good Time Trials. The back of the ute was packed with beer, though, so Andrew thought it best to just appreciate it and not ask questions.

The trainees were taken to the stage in small groups, each time the doors were closed behind them immediately so that Andrew never got so much as a glimpse of the stage. Slowly the backstage room got less and less cramped as trainees were taken to the stage and never came back. It seemed as if the first-timers, the Junior Jammers looking to become Freshfaced Freaks, we being saved for last.

Looking at the people in the room around him, Andrew tried to guess what he was in for based on how the other trainees were preparing. Many of them had taken the Trial before and failed, so this time they had some idea of what to expect. They were being very tight-lipped about it, though, because there was apparently some competition aspect to the Trial, so that your success could depend on the failure of others.

The Trial was one of the only times that the trainees could where whatever they wanted instead of the plain white robes of the monastery. Many of the trainees, especially those who were taking the Trial for a second or third time, used this opportunity to don garb which would give them an edge in the competition. Andrew saw one of the trainees in a skin-tight devil costume with plastic horns, and another in an old fashioned deep-sea diving suit draped with Christmas lights. Another trainee was completely naked except for a pair of aviator sunglasses, and their body was covered in glow-in-the-dark paint. Andrew was beginning to feel out of place in his plain white t-shirt and white jeans, but they were the only clothes he had with him apart from his monastery robes, as they were what he was wearing when his plane crashed.

As the crowd thinned, Andrew spotted on of his familiar classmates, Erik Weisz. Erik was dressed like a stage magician, complete with top hat and a large black cape which was bright red on the inside. He had even drawn on a moustache to fully look the part.

“Gee, Erik, you really dressed up for this! You look rad!” Andrew tried to complement his fellow trainee, but Erik simply glared at him with a look of disdain.

“You realise this is a completion, don’t you? You aren’t my friend here, you never were. And now you’re not even a ‘fellow trainee’ or whatever. You’re my opponent, you understand? I’m going to make this grading. I’m going to be a Freshfaced Freak, and _you’re not_. You better get comfortable with that fact.” said Erik.

Andrew nearly lashed back, but he remembered something that Brother Lao had said. “PARTY TIP: Haters are just people who haven’t quite figured out partying.” Erik was definitely being a hater, but Andrew couldn’t get mad at him for that.

This made Andrew reflect on how far he had come as a partier. Weeks ago, before he had seen the Prophecy Stone and learnt what partying really was, Andrew would have taken offence to Erik’s attitude. He would probably have responded with some ‘tude of his own. But now Andrew wasn’t interested in such things as ‘tude. He was only interested in partying and the joy it could bring.

Erik was about to get stuck into Andrew again, but two monks entered the room to collect the next bunch of trainees to participate in the trial. They took eight people, including Andrew and Erik, and lead them down a short corridor and onto the stage.

The curtain was lifted, and Andrew was able to see the stage for the first time as he was lead onto it. At stage right there was a huge waterfall, constantly running into a hole in the stage with a tremendous roar. At stage left there were numerous flaming hoops, the sort a circus acrobat might jump through. There were lollipops on ropes swinging around, and lots of pyrotechnics and lasers making a spectacle of the whole place. On the ground were various stages, tables, chairs, buckets of water and snack food, scattered around at random. The lights were so bright that Andrew couldn’t see the faces of anyone in the audience, but he could tell they were there, reclined in their deck chairs, many of them loudly munching on various snack foods or slurping on tasty beverages.

The trainees were lined up at centre stage, where there was a raised platform, a badass smoke machine and a pair of very bright spotlights. Standing atop the platform looking down at the audience was a woman dressed in a top hat and a jacket with long tails but no trousers. She looked half cabaret performer and half English gentleman.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” She announced into a microphone she was holding, “Allow me to introduce the participants of the next round of the Good Time Trials!”

The crowd exploded into applause and cheers, many of them passing around a large beach ball while others threw glitter towards the stage. Music began pumping from huge speakers as the participants walked onto the stage.

Some of the participants waved at the crowd. Erik did a front flip as he entered the stage, a feat especially impressive in his long cape and tall top hat. Andrew was thought he was going to be too nervous to attempt anything, but as soon as he heard the music playing it began to overtake him. He began bouncing up and down and windmilling his long hair as he made his way towards centre stage.

“Out of these eight excellent guys and gals, only one will be receiving the coveted title of Freshfaced Freak! As for what they need to do to earn this title, well, that should be obvious,” the announcer announced, then she pointed her microphone towards the audience as they shouted in unison “party hard!”

There was a sudden explosion of fireworks and the stage erupted into a frenzy of movement. A contestant in full clown makeup began cartwheeling around the stage. Another participant dressed in black studded leather grabbed a bass guitar, seemingly out of thin air, and began rocking some killer jams.  Monkeys descended from the ceiling, many of them dressed in adorable human-like outfits. Where they some participants doing? Or part of the set-up? Andrew had no idea what was going on around him.

Andrew decided the best course of action would be to try to see what Erik was doing – after all, Erik seemed pretty confident. But the wily Weisz had disappeared! Andrew was left to try to make sense of the pandemonium around him all by himself.

All of the participants seemed to be partying really hard. They were doing everything they could to have a great time and to let everyone else know that they were having a great time. One of them was snorting lines of ground pop rocks, and then breathing rainbow fire. Another was playing Twister with some of the monkeys. It was the craziest party Andrew had seen to date. But something about it didn’t seem right to him.

Then he thought back to Brother Lao’s instructions. Partying is just about feeling good. It’s about making _everybody_ feel good. _That’s_ the power of positive partying. _That’s_ what Andrew needed to do.

All of the participants were rocking out real hard, but Andrew noticed the presenter was just standing patiently off to the side. That simply would not do. Andrew rushed up to her and began dancing like a maniac. He grabbed the mic in her hands and began singing into it, holding it near her face as well encouraging her to sing along. She did, and the smile on her face told Andrew he was on the right track.

The guy playing the bass was still going, jamming along to the song on the speakers. Andrew signalled him over, and thrust the mic in his face. The three of them were no all singing along.

The audience cheered and showered Andrew with glitter. He picked up a handful of it off the ground and threw it back. Then he picked up a hotdog from one of the onstage tables and threw that at the audience. This was promptly returned by a cupcake hurled from the front row. The ensuing food fight quickly spread to the entire audience.

Andrew continued in this manner around the stage, not just making his own fun, but engaging in the fun of the other participants. He played a round of twister with the monkeys and an incredibly flexible Junior Jammer. He jumped through hoops to catch lollypops, and when one of the other participants failed in the attempt he caught them, and cheered them on until they could do it right.

Even if he never made it to Freshfaced Freak, Andrew was having the time of his life. But all the while he still never saw Erik. Where could he be?

This question was answered when Erik materialized in centre stage in a huge explosion of smoke, lights and confetti.

“You fool!” Erik exclaimed, beams of coloured light shining from beneath him, “you can’t hope to win just by doing what everyone else is doing! You haven’t done anything original on this stage, you’ve just copied other people!”

Then, with smoke wafting around his ankles, Erik slowly began to levitate.

“I, the great Erik Weisz, will perform feats of party magic never before seen! I will party harder than anyone has ever partied before!” and with a wave of his arms, the mighty waterfall at stage right changed course, flowing horizontally, then spiralling majestically around Erik.

“You, Andy W.K., barely even qualify as a Junior Jammer! You know _nothing_ of my real power!” and then the water was sent thundering down towards Andrew, hitting him directly in the face and totally soaking him.

Andrew stood, dripping, hair sticking to his face, but still positive.

“Don’t you get it, Erik? This isn’t about who’s more powerful, or who can do the best tricks, or even who has the most fun. It’s not even a real competition. It’s just about partying hard. And you, my friend, are not partying.”

The music stopped. Brother Lao stepped onto the stage.

“He’s right, you know.” Lao spoke, “In truth, this was not a competition. It was a test, to see if you could put aside your competitive spirit and simply enjoy partying hard. Everyone here has made it to the level of Freshfaced Freak. Everyone, that is, except for your Erik. I’m afraid you’ll have to spend another year as a Junior Jammer.”

“No! You’ll regret this! All of you will regret this! I will be the greatest party magician the world has ever seen, and then you will all pay!” Erik yelled, and then vanished with a loud pop and a puff of smoke.

He was never seen at the monastery again.


End file.
